


One Hour Photo

by youaremarvelous



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crush at First Sight, Customer Service, Dorks in Love, Gen, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Phichit and Chris are the best friends ever I love them, Slow Burn, Viktor knew first, and Yuuri is So Bi, and the awful customers that come along with it, but only by like 10 seconds really, he is also So Gay, it’s not a suspense thriller it’s just a super fluffy time tbh, one hour photo AU, this is in no way connected to the Robin Williams movie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-18 20:36:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10624689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youaremarvelous/pseuds/youaremarvelous
Summary: It takes an hour to develop photos, but it'll probably take longer for something to develop between Viktor and the oblivious but cute cashier boy.(or the AU where Yuuri works at a Walgreens and Viktor has the difficult task of convincing him he's being flirted with)





	1. Chapter 1

Chris unbuckles his seatbelt and swings open the passenger side door. “So let me get this straight—”

 

“Okay,” Viktor nods, locking the car behind them and heading towards the Walgreens entrance.

 

“You took pictures of Internet memes with a disposable camera.”

 

“Yes,” Viktor affirms, pulling the camera from his coat pocket.

 

“And came here to print them out.”

 

“Correct.”

 

“To mail to Yuri.”

 

“Precisely.”

 

Chris frowns slightly and turns his eyes to the ceiling before shrugging with a hum. “Seems like a perfectly reasonable way to spend your time.”

 

Viktor opens his mouth to argue but then snaps it shut, turning to Chris with an excited smile. “Right?”

 

Chris huffs out a short laugh and examines a nearby bottle of chocolate wine. “He’s going to murder you one of these days, you know.”

 

“I don’t doubt it,” Viktor easily agrees, heading towards the photo counter. “But this is a cause I’m willing to go out for.”

 

Chris places the bottle back on the rack with a grimace and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Trolling Yuri?”

 

“What else?” Viktor leans on the photo center counter, turning his head this way and that in search of the cashier.

 

A guy shoots him a peace sign from the register and picks up a handset. There’s a high pitched squeak and then a monotone, echoey voice. “Yuuri to the photo center. Yuuri to the photo center.”

 

“Yuuri?” Viktor cranes his neck to find the missing attendant.

 

“Hopefully he’s not as angry as ours.”

 

There’s the sound of a crash and a muted yelp from the corner of the store. “Coming! I’m coming!” A guy in a half tucked in blue button down and black pants darts around a display of nail polish. His dark hair curls messily around his pink-tinged cheek; there are little red indentions crisscrossing his forehead and a suspicious trail of drool streaking down his chin.

 

Viktor has to grab Chris’ arm to keep from swooning.

 

“He’s so cute?” He chokes out in a strained whisper.

 

Chris tilts his head a little, mouth curling into an amused half smile when the guy bangs his knee on a cardboard cutout of a giant bear holding a roll of toilet paper and promptly apologizes to it. “He does have a certain appeal, doesn’t he?”

 

“Sorry about that,” the cashier—Yuuri, his name tag confirms—slips by them, letting himself in behind the counter. “Did you need help importing photos?”

 

Viktor only manages to smile dopily at the cashier—entranced by the sound of his voice but oblivious to the meaning behind the words—so Chris answers for him. “Actually, we need to get some film developed.”

 

“Uh, right!” Viktor recovers quickly, fumbling to pass over the camera. In his struggle, it slips out of his hands, bouncing across the counter with a hollow clack.

 

Yuuri scoops it up quickly. “Oh no,” he frets with genuine-sounding distress, “now your pictures will be blurry.”

 

“My?” Viktor turns to Chris—eyebrows knit and mouth hanging open—before looking back at Yuuri.

 

“It was a joke,” Chris mumbles into Viktor’s ear, elbowing him gently in the side.

 

“A jo—? Oh!” Viktor recovers with a sharp intake of breath, eyes wide. “My pictures—oh," he heaves a stilted laugh. "Right. Because I dropped them! And they—they shook...the film.”

 

“Wow.” Chris smiles at his friend. “Smooth.”

 

“Uh,” Yuuri blushes and pulls out an order form. “S-so, your pictures will be ready for pick-up by 1:30. How many prints did you want?”

 

Viktor just blinks in response and Chris rolls his eyes and laughs. “One is fine.”

 

Yuuri jumps a little and turns to Chris, nodding and hastily drawing in a shaky “one.” “And can I have a name for the order?”

 

“Viktor,” Viktor steps in this time, recovering from his stupor with a practiced smile. “Viktor Nikiforov.”    

  

 

Yuuri sighs heavily and drops his head on the counter. Then picks it up and drops it again for good measure.

 

“School problems?” Phichit asks, reorganizing the candy bar display next to the register.

 

“Nn. Just...life in general.”

 

Phichit snorts and re-shelves a stray Kit Kat. “Oh, well if that’s all.”

 

Yuuri groans loudly and folds his arms around his head. “I think I just made a fool of myself in front of that customer.”

 

“And you care because?” Phichit rescues a pair of plastic pineapple framed sunglasses from a box of chapstick and turns them around in his hands. He glances at Yuuri, noting the faint pink blush dusting his cheeks. “Oh…” he says slowly, realization dawning. “Was he cute?”

 

“What?” Yuuri yelps, snapping his head up. “He—he was...I mean?”

 

Phichit snickers and plops the pineapple frames on Yuuri’s face. They hang off the tip of his nose, fighting for space with his own blue-framed pair. “Why do you think you made a fool of yourself in front of the cute customer?”

 

“He’s not—I didn’t,” Yuuri starts to argue, but then gives up—pulling off the novelty sunglasses and folding them carefully. “I made a stupid joke.”

 

“Not the blurry pictures one again?”

 

Yuuri utters a garbled groan and lowers his forehead to the counter, grabbing at fistfuls of his hair. “I’m such an idiot.”

 

“Hey, hey. No, you’re not.” Phichit placates, patting Yuuri on the head. “You’re cute. And I’m sure he thinks so, too!”

 

“He was so embarrassed for me he could hardly speak.”

 

Phichit heaves an exasperated sigh—one that reveals his experience with combating Yuuri’s penchant for misinterpreting others interest in him. He pries the sunglasses from Yuuri’s loose grip, placing them back on the rack. “I’m sure that’s not the case.” Yuuri doesn’t respond so Phichit starts organizing the magazines. “Maybe he was just overwhelmed by your magnificent bedhead.”

 

Yuuri gasps and sits up, frantically palming at his scalp. “Is it that bad?”

 

Phichit shakes his head and swats Yuuri’s hands away. “Didn’t the manager tell you to stop sleeping in the pool float display?” He scolds, combing his fingers through Yuuri’s hair to work out the kinks.

 

“I know, I’m sorry,” Yuuri rubs a hand down his face, wincing a little when Phichit’s fingers snag hard on a knot. “This semester has been murder. I promise I won’t do it again.”

 

“Relax, it’s not like I’m gonna tell her.” Phichit tries to smooth down a cowlick and sighs when it springs back up again. “It’s kind of in my best interest if my roommate stays employed. And anyway,” he finishes taming Yuuri’s hair with a light pat on the cheek, “I’m willing to claim partial responsibility. I _was_ the one who dragged you out last night.”

 

“It’s not like you forced me to go.”

 

Which is true, technically. Though Phichit kind of doubts Yuuri would’ve joined in on fifteen rounds of Sip Sip Shot on his own. However, “I certainly didn’t force you to get drunk and start performing the choreography to every Britney Spears music video from her debut album.”

 

Yuuri curls his fingers over his eyes. “I’m never drinking again.”

 

Phichit waves him off with a crooked smile. “Relax, everyone loved it.” If the flushed faces and wolf whistles were anything to go by. Phichit wonders if Yuuri even noticed the smudged phone numbers decorating his chest in his mad rush to get to work this morning; Phichit can just make out the end of a blurry “seventy-two” peeking out from Yuuri’s work shirt, right below his collarbone.  

 

“Is that why I have so many new friendship requests?” Yuuri asks and Phichit only giggles in response.

 

Yuuri’s shoulders sag a little deeper when his phone chimes with another notification as if to emphasize the point. “It’s not like I have time, anyway.”

 

“For Facebook?” Phichit teases, digging in his pocket for his chapstick. Yuuri’s dry lips have been bothering him since they’d drunkenly made out after Yuuri’s third encore last night.   

 

“For romance,” Yuuri clarifies.

 

Phichit hums his understanding, tapping a finger under Yuuri’s chin until he tilts his head back. “So you want to date him?” He keeps Yuuri from immediately denying it by pressing strawberry scented chapstick to his pouting lips. “The customer, I mean. What were his pictures of, anyway?”

 

Yuuri rolls his lips together when Phichit releases him. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

 

“Oh, so you’re choosing _now_ to be good at your job?”

 

Yuuri would like to be good at his job at all times, especially if it meant being less of a trash adult that gets drunk with a bunch of freshman and frat boys and passes out on a giant swan pool float at work the next afternoon. He doesn’t say as much, only because it’s not Phichit’s responsibility to pull him out of every slump. “Sorry,” he mumbles, leaning his head into his hand.  

 

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Phichit relents easily. He’s known Yuuri too long to not recognize the onset of self-loathing in the slope of his shoulders. “All I’m saying is, don’t let me stop you from making your move when he comes back for his photos. I’ll just be over here, engrossed in a very engaging article about—” Phichit reaches blindly for a magazine and flips it open—“...five types of orgasm every woman should experience in her lifetime.”

 

“Yeah, right,” Yuuri scoffs, utterly appalled at the thought of himself being able to put the moves on anyone. “He’s probably not even gay.” 

 

 

“I’m so gay.”

 

Chris smiles and checks out his hair in the rearview mirror. “Yes, darling, we established that a little more than a decade ago.”

 

“His accent was so cute,” Viktor continues excitedly, ignoring the interruption. “And did you see his eyes? What do you think his last name is?”

 

“Shouldn’t you get to the know the boy before you start writing wedding vows?”

 

“See if you can find him on Facebook.” Viktor flips on the turn signal and tosses his phone in Chris’ lap.

 

Chris raises an eyebrow but complies. “It was two ‘u’s,’ right?” He taps out the letters in the search bar. “Ah, here we are.” He stops scrolling when he spots a familiar mop of dark hair and dopey, sweet smile. “Yuuri Kat...sooki,” he recites awkwardly, uncertain of the pronunciation. “He’s a student.”

 

Viktor gasps as though Chris had revealed he’s the crowned prince of Wales. “What’s his major?”

 

“Mm doesn’t say,” he scrolls around the mostly empty profile for any information he can glean. “Doesn’t look like he uses it much,” he concludes, sending a friend request, anyway.

 

“A man of mystery,” Viktor marvels, eyes sparkling. “I like it.”

 

Except, he doesn’t really. He realizes this shortly after sitting in a metal patio chair, scouring the web for any social media presence of his newest crush while Chris runs inside to collect their lunch. He manages to find an Instagram account, but it’s even barer than his Facebook—consisting only of a picture of an (admittedly cute) toy poodle and a selfie with the cashier from the drug store.

 

Viktor clicks over to the tagged photos tab, mentally praising said cashier—Phichit, if his Instagram screen name is to be believed—for single-handedly blessing the online realm with what appears to be the sole significant collection of pictures of this angelic-looking boy.   

 

There’s a photo of him waving a peace sign over a towering sundae, numerous selfies of the two of them at a street festival— eating unidentifiable fried food on sticks and squatting in front of poorly painted face cutouts, images of them stretched out on the lush green quad— heads pillowed on their backpacks, a few more scattered photos of the same poodle and at least three different hamsters. There’s even one sacred image of him holding a beer bottle to his mouth like a microphone—hand splayed on his cocked hip—ass to the camera.

 

By the time he reaches the bottom of the page, Viktor has assessed three things.

 

“So what have we learned?” Chris sets down a tray of soup and sandwiches.

 

“He has the sweetest smile,” Viktor counts out on his fingers, “he probably owns a dog! And Phichit is doing god’s work.”

 

“Nothing, then.” Chris clasps his straw between his teeth and slurps, blinking at Viktor through long lashes.

 

“Enough,” Viktor picks up his sandwich, studying the ripe red tomatoes and crisp lettuce. “Soon to be more,” he decides before taking a bite.

  

 

Yuuri is halfway through checking out a customer when a familiar pink convertible pulls up to the curb. He speeds through the rest of the transaction, nearly going into cardiac arrest when the old woman pulls a checkbook out of her bag. He rocks back on his heels, gnawing at the inside of his cheek while he watches her dig around in her purse for a pen.

 

“What was the total again, dear?”

 

“What, I-?” Yuuri glances nervously to the door when it slides open with a quiet whoosh of air.

 

“The total,” the woman repeats, pen poised.

 

“Ah,” Yuuri stares at the door just long enough to catch a glimpse of improbably shiny ash blonde hair before returning his attention to the register. “Twenty-three seventy-fine—NINE!  _NINE_!”

 

The man—‘ _Viktor_ ,’ Yuuri mentally amends—heads towards the photo center, tossing him a wink as he passes, and the old woman nods and starts filling out her check. Yuuri wonders if it would be too much to ask for the floor to swallow him up. He hears Phichit laughing at him from the next register, the traitor.

 

Yuuri exhales heavily when the old woman finally leaves, groceries in hand. He waits for her to clear the threshold—tapping a nervous rhythm on his thigh—before hurrying over to Phichit’s register. “Do you think he heard me?” He grabs a roll of receipt paper from under the counter in an attempt to look busy.

 

Phichit takes the roll out of his hands, his lips tilting into a smile. “Nein.”

 

“I’m quitting.” Yuuri decides on the spot. He reaches up to remove his name tag but Phichit grabs him by the wrist.

 

“Only kidding,” Phichit placates. If anything, Yuuri’s customer crush has looked their way so many times, he’s starting to worry the guy is going to get whiplash. Phichit grabs a magazine off the nearest rack and points at the cover.  “Now get over there and show ‘im what you’ve got. I’ll just be here, minding my own business.” He flips the magazine open with a flourish.  

 

Yuuri stares helplessly at the overly cheerful white woman gracing the cover of Phichit’s _Women’s Day_. Before today he would’ve sworn her teeth had been whitened in post production. He thinks of Viktor’s smile—the little creases lining the outer corner of his eyes—and his insides shudder.

 

Yuuri collects himself as best he can, patting down the front of his shirt and forcing himself to take deep breaths. He doesn’t remember being this anxious to help a customer since his first week—okay, month ( _year?_ )—of working retail. His heart thumps a frenzied beat in his throat as he makes his way to the photo kiosk, and he sends up a prayer that his palms don’t start sweating.

 

Viktor is alone when Yuuri finally reaches him, his friend off browsing the makeup aisle. “So we meet again.” He smiles when Yuuri approaches and _god_ do his eyes really have to be _that_ blue?

 

Yuuri manages to stutter over his laugh. “Ha. Well...I work here.” He curls his toes in his sneakers and leans back on his heels, wondering if the floor wants to rethink its stance on not sinking him into the depths of hell.  

 

“I see a comb found you.” Viktor observes when Yuuri reaches down to retrieve his packet of photos.

 

“Ah,” Yuuri brushes a stray curl out of his face, “s-sorry, I...got caught in the rain this morning.”

 

Viktor nods patiently and smiles. Neither of them remarks on the bright sun streaming from the cloudless sky into the surrounding store windows.

 

“It looks nice,” Viktor takes the photos out of Yuuri’s hands. His thumb brushes the inside of Yuuri’s wrist, “it looked cute before, too.”

 

Yuuri blinks at him, four year’s knowledge of the English language dissolving into a mess of buzzing static. “Th-that’ll be twelve eighty-six.” He pulls the words from his throat—unnaturally high-pitched and wheezy—through the force of sheer muscle memory alone.

 

Viktor lifts a perfectly groomed eyebrow and the corners of his smile droop almost imperceptibly before snapping back into place. He gives a short laugh—brushing a hand through his bangs— and withdraws his wallet from his pocket. “Someone’s in a hurry,” he remarks, swiping his card in the machine.

 

Yuuri clenches the edge of the counter with trembling fingers. Had that been wrong? What was he supposed to have said? “There’s only two of us working today, so…” Yuuri’s cheeks feel warm and he tries to catch the reflection of them in the sunglasses hanging from Viktor’s collar.

 

“Ah.” Viktor looks over his shoulder at the empty store. “I can understand your concern.”

 

Yuuri’s mouth is dry and his tongue sticks to the top of his mouth. “R-right.” He rips off the receipt and holds it out to Viktor.

 

“I guess I shouldn’t hold you up while you’re working.” Viktor accepts the receipt and stares at it, frowning in a way that makes Yuuri worry he somehow flubbed up the charge. “Actually, do you have a pen?” He asks, flipping over the receipt and placing it on the counter.

 

“Oh, um—” Yuuri pats his pocket, flailing around awkwardly before spotting one jammed under the cash drawer. He tries to hand it to Viktor, but Viktor huffs behind a smile and taps the receipt twice.

 

“It’s for you,” he clarifies breezily. “Do you think I could have your number?”

 

Yuuri’s mind is rushing with a thousand questions but customer service brain takes over and he does what’s asked, embarrassed at the way his fingers shake beneath the unyielding weight of Viktor’s gaze.

 

“Great,” Viktor beams, pulling back the receipt before Yuuri has even lifted the pen from transcribing the last digit. He gazes at the numbers for a few seconds and then folds the paper and slips it into his pocket with his wallet. “I suppose I’ll leave you to deal with the rush,” he winks. His hair slips down his forehead and brushes the bridge of his nose.

 

Yuuri manages to laugh—an awkward amount of seconds after the fact and startlingly loud—but hey, it’s something. He sees Viktor’s friend jump and drop a tube of mascara in his peripheral. Viktor just snorts—a wholly unexpected but delightfully ugly noise—and gestures him over.

 

“I’ll talk to you later, Yuuri.” He slides his fingertips across the countertop, lifting them at the ledge with a small wave and a smile. Yuuri watches his back as he leaves, swallowing thickly as his glasses slip down his nose.

 

“Bye,” he manages, but probably too quiet for Viktor to hear. ‘ _Has my name always sounded that lovely_?’ He searches his memory banks as he watches the Barbie pink car pull away from the curb and peel off into traffic.  

 

Yuuri feels like his head is floating three feet above his shoulders. He wobbles back to Phichit on legs that might as well be noodles for all the support they offer.

 

“So…” Phichit tosses the magazine to the side when Yuuri reaches him, leaning forward on his elbows. “That seemed to go well.”

 

Yuuri opens his mouth, then shuts it again. His eyebrows move towards his hairline, tensing together in the middle. “It did?”

 

“Well, yeah,” Phichit shrugs a shoulder. “Judging by the flirting.”

 

“Flirt…?” Yuuri’s voice trails off with a squeak. He shakes his head a little, eyes strained with self-deprecation. “I think I annoyed him.”

 

“What?” Phichit wonders what mental gymnastics Yuuri has worked to reach that assessment. All he could see from his vantage point was two dopey fools making eyes at each other.  “How d’you figure?”

 

Yuuri tilts his shoulders back and sucks in a breath and Phichit hones in on the phone number peeking out of Yuuri’s shirt again. He licks his thumb and starts scrubbing at it. “Forget it.” He squints his eyes, pulling Yuuri’s collar back in a search of any more stray numbers.  “Whatever you’re thinking, you’re wrong. He was flirting.” He reiterates because Yuuri’s crippling self-doubt requires the confirmation.

 

Yuuri looks lost. He chews on his perpetually dry bottom lip and scrunches up his nose, watching Phichit wipe away pen marks with his saliva. He distantly thinks that he should be more bothered by that than he is. “Are you sure?” He asks because he’s tired of listening to his own inner voice on the matter.

 

“He asked for your number, didn’t he?”

 

“He…” Yuuri snaps his mouth shut, eyes widening with realization. “Wait. He wanted _my_ number?”

 

Phichit’s fingers still and he looks up at Yuuri’s face. He blinks once, then twice. “Please don’t tell me you gave him the number to the photo center.”

  

 

Viktor stares at his phone, horrorified as an impassive pre-recorded female voice lists out hours of operation. 

 

“He gave me the number to the photo center,” he says, utterly dumbstruck. 

 

His dog whines and flops her head on his thigh and Viktor mindlessly threads his fingers through her curly fur. He pouts at the glass of red wine resting on his side table—the one he had preemptively poured as a celebratory drink for having secured a first date with the cute boy from the Walgreens. 

 

Instead, he drains the glass in one gulp. The taste of rejection is 1993 Araujo Estate Eisele Vineyard Cabernet Sauvignon. Four glasses and a second, cheaper bottle of wine later, Viktor has decided he won’t let this stand. He calls up Chris, declaring with much-slurred passion that it is imperative he be driven to WalMart at that exact moment. 

 

Love waits for no man, not even ones who are wine drunk at two am. 

 

Chris comes because he’s the best friend Viktor could’ve ever asked for and he doesn’t deserve him. He’s also probably concerned about Viktor’s compulsive decision making enough to worry that he might try to drive himself to the store without intervention.  

 

“What exactly are we doing?” Chris leans back into his husband’s chest when they reach their destination, yawning into his open palm. 

 

Viktor rips every disposable camera from the wall display, piling them into his already overfull arms. “Wooing Yuuri,” he declares without further explanation, stomping off to make his purchase. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when life is a dumpster fire, write fluffy fic about gay boys falling in love over outdated media forms.
> 
> this fic shouldn't be more than 2-3 chapters, but sometimes I get unintentionally long-winded so I'm leaving it open-ended at the moment for the sake of my sanity. yell at me for updates on [tumblr](http://youremarvelous.tumblr.com/)
> 
> (jk don't do that. DO feel free to come chat with me about Viktor's crush on his own husband, however.)
> 
> comments & kudos are so appreciated! thanks y'all <3


	2. Chapter 2

“You can’t avoid it forever, you know.”

 

Yuuri pulls a lodged greeting card out from between a bag of Funyuns and lime-flavored tortilla chips. “Avoid what?” He asks, as if both he and Phichit don’t already know.

 

They’d hardly spoken a word since that morning when Yuuri walked through the door and made an immediate beeline to the photo counter. He spotted the flashing blue voicemail light when he was still a good three feet away—his heart immediately falling out of his butt—and has been obsessively zoning the store ever since.

 

Phichit allowed it at first because, really, Yuuri is never so efficient as when he is desperately trying to distract himself from something he doesn’t want to deal with; but apparently the threshold for acceptable anxiety-fueled avoidance is three hours, and Phichit’s patience—while seemingly boundless—is wearing thin.  

 

Yuuri skims the card quickly—spotting an image of a toolbox and beer and some joke about watching golf—and heads towards the “For Dad/Funny” section. Phichit follows on his heels, refusing to let the matter drop. “C’mon,” he weaves his fingers together with Yuuri’s and squeezes. “I’ll hold your hand for emotional support.”

 

Yuuri slips the card into place. “I don’t need—” he starts to argue, eyes glazing over as he bites his bottom lip. The skin there is frayed, worn down from his nervous habit of running his teeth across it. “Okay,” he relents after a few long seconds, because despite what his panicked brain would like him to think, delaying the inevitable won’t change anything. “Fine.”

 

Phichit wastes no time in tugging him toward the photo center, using their linked hands for leverage. He feels it when Yuuri digs his heels in, but it’s nip this in the bud now or spend the rest of his and Yuuri’s shared shifts screening voicemails. Phichit prides himself on being a fabulous friend, but he’s no receptionist. So he tenses his muscles and pulls with all his strength, towing Yuuri unwittingly along.

 

Yuuri doesn’t say “I can’t do it” when he is deposited in front of the blinking phone, but the words are evident in the stiff set of his shoulders and the tension lining his eyes.

 

“Get it over with quickly,” Phichit coaxes, grabbing the receiver off the dock and stuffing it in Yuuri’s sweating palm. “Like ripping off a bandaid.”  

 

Yuuri can hardly see the equivalence to that kind of brief physical pain and the intense spiritual torture that is his mind attacking itself, but his desire to avoid disappointing (or worse, annoying) Phichit is at present stronger than his fear of whatever might be awaiting him in the store’s messaging system. After all, he’s known Phichit longer than Viktor and they live together. The stakes of their relationship are considerably higher.

 

Yuuri squeezes Phichit’s hand once more for strength and presses the voicemail button with a shaking finger. A shiver works its way down his spine when the insistent programmed voice tells him, “please select the voicemail you wish to hear.” There’s only one message, so Yuuri rests a finger over the corresponding key. His breaths fly short and fast from his lips and he’s pretty sure Phichit can feel his stampeding heartbeat from how close he’s pressed against his back. Yuuri squeezes his eyes shut and presses, and the world tunnels in around him in the two century long seconds before an elderly woman’s voice fills his ear.

 

“Hello? Hello is anyone there? You posted an ad on my Facebook saying I like beer and I want it removed. It is a violation of my privacy and a defamation of character. My grandchildren are friends with me. I want your manager to call me and fix it! Hello? Hell—” The message peters off with the sound of static and then silence.

 

“End of messages,” a stilted female voice announces.

 

Yuuri pulls the handset away from his ear and stares at it—eyebrows knit—wondering why it feels like his lungs are deflating. “That’s it,” he exhales a shaky breath. Then, swallowing, turns towards Phichit. “He didn’t call.”

 

Phichit tilts his head, studying Yuuri’s face. “Is that...a good thing or a bad thing?” He asks carefully.

 

“It’s...I…” The words stick in Yuuri’s throat, muddled behind warring sensations of cold relief and dizzy disappointment. “I don’t know,” he says the words slowly, tasting them in his mouth. It feels like the truth, but his traitorous sinuses start to burn with incoming tears, anyway.

 

“Hey, no.” Phichit slips a hand around Yuuri’s shoulders, pulling him in for a hug. “None of that.” He scolds gently, pressing a kiss to Yuuri’s temple. He doesn’t mention that the lack of a voicemail doesn’t necessarily mean Viktor didn’t call. He doesn’t get the chance to, because as soon as he opens his mouth, the automatic door slides open with an electronic ding.

 

“Good afternoon!” Viktor breezes through the store entrance, waving a disposable camera over his head. He slows when he nears the photo center, his Salvatore Ferragamo loafers squeaking on the linoleum floors.  “Ah, am I interrupting something?”

 

Phichit releases his hold around Yuuri’s shoulders. “Just doing daily affirmations,” he smiles, clasping Yuuri’s cheeks between his hands. “‘ _I acknowledge my own self-worth; my confidence is soaring_.’ Say it!”

 

Yuuri only groans. “You’ve _got_ to stop reading those women’s magazines.”

 

Phichit clucks his tongue and steps back. “Never underestimate the power of positive thinking.” He tousles Yuuri’s hair before leaving to return to the register. “Afternoon, Viktor,” he waves as he passes him, throwing Yuuri a secret wink.

 

Viktor’s eyes follow Phichit’s back—mouth pressed into a tight line. “Afternoon...” He replies, the word trailing off into an audible question mark. He turns back to Yuuri and props his elbows on the counter. “How does he know my name?”

 

Yuuri promptly drops the brochure holder he had begun busying himself with. It clatters against the counter before falling to the floor. “He...uh...he—” Yuuri looks to the scattered brochures and then back to Viktor, raking his mind for excuses—“he asked for it...because he thought you looked familiar, b-but turns out he was thinking of someone else.”

 

“Hmm,” Viktor lifts an eyebrow but doesn’t question him. “You two seem close.”

 

Yuuri nods without thinking. “We’re roommates,” he confirms, and then—realizing the implications of that statement—tacks on a hurried, “platonic ones!”

 

Viktor’s mouth tilts into a smile and he slides his camera across the counter. “Single prints, please.”

 

Yuuri starts—momentarily forgetting his job in the mental maelstrom of trying to explain his relationship with Phichit—and scrambles for an order sheet. “Your photos will be ready by 1:30.” He says, rushing to fill in the rest of the form.

 

“Great,” Viktor leans his head into his hand and watches Yuuri pop open the camera and remove the film roll.

 

“U-um,” Yuuri pauses, hands poised over the film picker. “It’s 12:30.”

  
“Mmhmm,” Viktor hums. Somehow his eyes manage to sparkle, even in the unflattering florescent light. “Don’t mind me, I’ll wait.”

 

 

“So,” Chris grabs the packet of prints off Viktor’s thigh and starts flipping through them. “You just...stayed there?”

 

“I waited for my photos to develop.” Viktor peers into the side mirror and merges into the turning lane. “There were some great selfies in there, I wanted to see his reaction!”

 

“I’m gonna throw up if you keep talking about your disgusting love pursuits,” a disgruntled voice calls from the back seat.

 

“You waited at the counter.” Chris continues, ignoring the interruption.

 

“Yes!” Viktor slaps the steering wheel. “And he barely spoke a word to me!”

 

Chris unveils a new picture and whistles. “You know I think you have a beautiful figure, but perhaps you’re coming on a bit...strong.”

 

“It was too much.” Viktor sighs, dejected. In hindsight, a camera full of nude mirror shots taken at four am while drunk off two bottles of wine was maybe not his most subtle attempt at seduction.

 

“A touch.” Chris agrees, slipping the photos back into their envelope.

 

“I ruined it,” Viktor laments, pulling up to the curb. His backseat passenger starts to wrench open the door before the car is even fully in park. “Say hello to your mother for me!” Viktor calls after his brooding charge.

 

“Go fuck yourself,” the boy flips him off and stomps towards the entrance to his towering mansion of a house.

 

Viktor’s face is schooled into a cool smile. “Oh Yurio, what a dear child,” he recites through gritted teeth.   

 

“The dearest,” Chris agrees impassively. “So what’s next on the agenda?”

 

Viktor pulls his phone from his pocket and taps open his calendar. “I have to meet with Iosif in thirty—he’s representing a new designer from Volgograd, apparently they’re all the rage in industrial modern.”

 

“Mmm we’ll see,” Chris flips down the visor and adjusts his sunglasses in the mirror.

 

“Then...another wine tasting at five. Malvina needs me to look into a new charter school—seems like little Dominika is struggling to get along with her classmates.”

 

“We should introduce her to Yuri,” Chris sneers.

 

“And for dinner I thought I would try the new French restaurant on fifth.”

 

“The one with the plancha grill?” Chris studies his nails. “It’s been getting rave reviews on Twitter.”

 

“Which is all but useless to my clients without the addition of a personal endorsement.” Viktor brushes his bangs to the side, frowning faintly at his schedule. “And after dinner...break in camera number two.” He concludes, tapping the calendar closed with a flourish.

 

Chris lifts one perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Isn’t it the third, technically.”

 

“Two since my photo taking was more intentioned.” Viktor clarifies, shifting the car into drive.

 

“And how many cameras do you have in total?”

 

Viktor scoffs. “It’s not like I sat around and counted all twenty three of them.” He also definitely didn’t stack them neatly and lock them inside his closet safe. Not as far as Chris ever has to know, anyway.   

 

“Will three weeks be enough?” Chris asks, mostly in mental preparation for any more late night Walmart runs.

 

“If I haven’t completely lost my touch, it should be approximately two weeks and six days too much.”

 

Chris feels the estimate is generous in this particular circumstance, but he doesn’t voice it. “Have we even determined if he’s gay?” He asks instead, crossing his right leg over his left.

 

Viktor opens his mouth, then closes it—considering. “He might not have said much today, but his blush spoke volumes,” he says, really to convince himself more than anything. “And what straight boy wears his pants rolled up like that?”

 

“Hipsters are a thing, darling.”

 

“ _Still?_ ”

 

Chris shrugs. “Unfortunate, but true.”

 

“Regardless—” Viktor shakes his head, clearing his mind of wretched things like flannel and weak-tasting IPAs—“he doesn’t seem the type.”

 

“But is he the type to be done in by wealthy Russian playboys?”

 

Viktor pulls his eyes from the road long enough to throw Chris a disapproving frown. “Maybe he’ll let us know if he meets one.” 

 

 

“Yuuri.” Phichit waves a hand in front of his friend’s face. “Earth to Yuuri.”

 

“Phichit.” Yuuri grabs Phichit’s hand and presses it up to his forehead.

 

“Mmhmm.”

 

“I’m falling for a wealthy Russian playboy, aren’t I.” It’s not a question.

 

Phichit smiles and pats the crown of Yuuri’s head with his free hand. “How do you know he’s Russian?”

 

Yuuri screws his face up—hesitating. “Well, it’s just a guess, but the accent...he kinda sounds like—”

 

“Gru, right?” Phichit snickers when Yuuri’s cheeks turn pink and he nods hard. “Is Gru even Russian?”

 

“I don’t know,” Yuuri says through a breathy laugh. “But it’s kind of really...cute, though?” Yuuri groans and drops his head into his palms. “I’m completely done for, aren’t I?”

 

“Completely.” Phichit nods and squeezes Yuuri’s wrists. “I’m so happy for you.”

 

“No,” Yuuri’s voice is muffled by his hands. “This is bad.”

 

“How so?” Phichit leans his upper body across the counter, moving his face close to Yuuri’s. “If you say it’s because he doesn’t feel the same, I’m going to smack you.” He narrows his eyes when Yuuri sighs and forces on a self-deprecating side smile. “Don’t think it, either,” Phichit warns.

 

Yuuri lifts his head and sighs. “He can do better.”

 

Phichit isn’t playing this game with Yuuri’s persistently low self-esteem. He loves his friend dearly, but there’s a limit to how many motivational speeches he can deliver per week. “He can’t,” Phichit says simply, leaving no room for argument. “Or are you saying he has bad taste?”

 

“N-no,” Yuuri protests immediately. As quick as he is to bring himself down, he’s rarely one to project it outward. “I just…”

 

“You just?” Phichit prompts.

 

Yuuri shakes his head and bites his bottom lip. “You’ll get mad.”

 

“Then whatever you’re thinking is probably wrong.”

 

“I’m not convinced he’s actually flirting with me.” Yuuri says quickly, taking a step back in case Phichit decides to make good on his promise to smack him.

 

“Yuuri.” Phichit says simply, because, _honestly_. Sometimes there’s no helping that boy.

 

“I know. _I know_ ,” Yuuri stresses, dropping his voice an octave. “I can’t tell you what his photos were of, but...I think he might be something like—” Yuuri swallows and looks at the ceiling, searching his mind for the English term—“a camgirl.” The title doesn’t quite fit, but he screws his mouth up and shrugs a shoulder, hoping Phichit will get the idea. “But um...the analogue version?”

 

Phichit stares at him silently—his eyes bugging out of his head—before bending at the waist with shoulder-shaking laughter. “You’re done. You’re so done,” he chokes, wiping tears from his eyes. He has to give Yuuri credit for his wild imagination, if nothing else. “You’re going to take your flirting Russian and you’re going to like him.”

  
Yuuri groans and digs his nails into his hairline. “ _Whatever_ ,” he blushes deeply. “I couldn’t even talk to him today. There’s no way he’s going to show up again.” 

 

 

“Viktor!” Phichit hands a weary looking customer the receipt for three energy drinks and a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos and waves Viktor over. “You’re here early.”

 

Viktor smiles and walks towards the register, flicking off his black Saint Laurent sunglasses and hooking them onto his collar. “Yuuri’s not here?” He asks, craning his neck towards the photo center.

 

“He has a morning class today,” Phichit explains. “He’ll be in at two.”

 

“ _Бля_ ,” Viktor hisses under his breath. “I have Yuri this afternoon.”

 

“Right…” Phichit tilts his head with the polite concern of a person who’s used to dealing with people on the flimsier side of sane. “Like I said, he’ll be in at two.”

 

“No, no, not _that_ Yuuri.” Viktor pulls his phone from his pocket when it chimes with a text. “This one is smaller...and considerably meaner.”

 

“I’d like to see that,” Phichit can’t help but snicker at the thought of a mini evil Yuuri doppelganger.

 

Viktor’s fingers fly across his phone keyboard. “You might if I can’t manage to pawn him off on Chris.” He mumbles more to himself than Phichit, tapping ‘send’ and sliding his phone back into his pocket.

 

“You know I can check you out,” Phichit lifts an eyebrow, testing him, “If you’re in that much of a hurry.”

 

Viktor lifts his chin and eyes Phichit carefully. “I think...we both know it’s not about the photos?”

 

“Yeah.” Phichit huffs and folds his arms over his chest. “Duh.”

 

Viktor’s shoulders sag in relief. “I don’t imagine you could clue him in on that?”

 

Phichit’s resigned smile is answer enough. He learned long ago that his words alone would likely never be enough to beat back the storm of Yuuri’s anxiety. He’s also stopped taking it personally. “I _am_ willing to help you, but…”

 

“But?” Viktor prompts.

 

“Look,” Phichit rests his hands on his hip, squaring up his shoulders to take full advantage of every inch of his admittedly short height. “Nothing against you, but I have to give you the obligatory ‘if you hurt him, I’ll send the entirety of Delta Lambda Phi to make your life miserable’ speech. I have connections, and they love Yuuri almost as much as I do.”

 

“If I hurt him I’ll give _myself_ a swirly,” Viktor lifts his right hand over his heart.

 

“Okay,” Phichit concedes with a laugh. “So here’s your hint. Yuuri is a student—a student that schedules himself for 8:30 classes.”

 

“And?” Viktor presses. He may be clueless on how to properly convey his flirtatious intentions to Yuuri, but he’s been able to piece at least _that_ much together.

 

“And caffeine comprises about 80% of his daily dietary intake.”

 

“Coffee!” Viktor snaps his fingers. “Coffee I can do. I know a great Italian café just three streets over. Their caffè freddo is perfect for the warm weather we’ve been having.”

  
Phichit can’t help but be endeared by Viktor’s excitement. He almost feels bad for threatening him with fraternity level hazing. _Almost_. “Just whatever you get, make it a triple shot.” 

 

 

“This is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard in my life. Is there anyone in this store who speaks _English_ ? I can hardly understand a thing you’re saying. Is your store manager here? I will get you fired so quickly your head will spin. Do you know my husband’s accountant’s friend is _friends_ with the owner of Walgreens? This is pure incompetence, I will never come to this store again. I swear, my five-year-old, Graeceigh, is more intelligent than you. I’m writing down your name and mentioning you on Google reviews. If I were you I’d start looking for a new job _yesterday._ ”

 

Viktor hears the woman’s voice—high-pitched and excessively condescending—as soon as he walks through the automatic doors. He places the coffees on the counter, flinching when the angry customer’s screeching reaches a particularly piercing decibel. “What happened?” He mouths to Phichit.

 

Phichit just shakes his head and mimes a knife being slid across his throat.

 

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Yuuri’s voice floats from the epicenter of the verbal massacre—wobbly and quiet. “It’s store policy. We’re not allowed to print anything with a watermark.”

 

“These are _my_ photos, I was the one who went to Olan Mills and had them taken!”

 

“I understand, ma’am, but technically they’re owned by—”

 

“I’m through talking with you, go back to China or wherever it is you came from to steal our jobs.” The woman snaps up the hand of her toddler. “Come, Jimothy.”  

 

Viktor gawks—eyes wide with shock—as the woman bustles by him, the pastel sweater around her shoulders flapping with each step. It’s the heartrending sound of Yuuri choking on a sob that breaks him from his stupor. Viktor snaps his mouth shut and burns a hurried path past the headphones and USB cords to the photo center, half-jogging in his haste to reach him.

 

Yuuri turns his face away when he spots Viktor. “ごめんなさい,” his voice breaks around the word. He swallows hard and rubs his wrist over his eyes with a liquid sniffle. “S-sorry. You’re here to get film developed, right? I’ll get Phichit to check you out.”

 

Yuuri tucks his chin into his chest and starts to walk off, and Viktor spins around after him, grabbing him by the elbow. “Wait!” He calls, stopping Yuuri in his tracks. “Just...deep breaths, okay?” He says carefully, slowly releasing his hold. “I’m not in a rush.”   

 

“Yuuri,” Phichit runs up to meet them when he finishes up with another customer. “That woman was a complete _bitch_ ,” he laments, wrapping Yuuri into a tight hug.  

 

“ _Phichit_ ,” Yuuri scolds, his eyes flicking nervously to Viktor.

 

“She was.” Viktor agrees easily. “Please tell me customers like that aren’t a common occurrence.”

 

Neither Yuuri nor Phichit respond and Viktor starts drafting shifts for “Operation Protect Sweet Foreign Boys from Insufferable Racist Upper Middle Class White Women” in his head. He’ll come up with a pithier name at a later date, he decides, combing a hand through his bangs and planting the other on his hip. “In any case,” he sighs, “who’s up for some coffee?”

 

“Coffee?” Yuuri pulls away from Phichit’s chest and takes off his glasses to wipe at his eyes.

 

“Iced,” Viktor nods, going to fetch the drinks. “Though the ice might’ve melted a bit...I hope that’s okay.”  

 

“It’s great!” Phichit calls after him. He turns to Yuuri and elbows him playfully in the side. “Right?

 

“Y-yes!” Yuuri’s eyes shine when Viktor hands him his drink and he spots the logo on the side. It’s a place he and Phichit always fantasize about splurging on while biking to work, but at ten bucks minimum for a plain coffee, wouldn’t dream of actually entering. He holds the cup delicately between his fingertips, as though it were composed of spun gold rather than slow brewed beans. “I love you,” he gasps, and then, realizing his mistake, “COFFEE! I love _coffee_.”

 

“Well, _I_ love you,” Phichit closes his eyes and takes a long sip. “Feel free to bring us drinks from expensive cafés any time.”

 

“Phichit,” Yuuri admonishes. Phichit shoots him a peace sign on his way back to the front register and Yuuri shakes his head with a fond sigh. “Sorry,” he apologizes for his friend, moving back around the counter. “It’s been a long day.”

 

Viktor removes the disposable camera from his pocket and slides it to Yuuri. “Seems like it. I’m sorry you have to put up with people like that.”

 

Yuuri shrugs a shoulder and starts filling out an order form. “I should probably be used to it, but…”

 

“No,” Viktor interrupts him, hands flat against the counter. “I don’t like seeing you cry, but Yuuri…you shouldn’t have to get used to people treating you poorly.”

 

Yuuri looks up into Viktor’s unnaturally blue eyes. It doesn’t make sense that Viktor should care so much about him, but it feels good that he does. Yuuri hovers his hands hesitantly around the camera and gives a nod so slight Viktor can hardly make it out. “Okay,” he agrees meekly. “Thanks.”

 

Viktor curls his fingers into his palms and leans back into his heels, letting the matter fall away to silence, and Yuuri breathes deeply and affixes the film picker to the roll. From the way his elbows are propped on the counter, It looks like Viktor intends to stay for the developing process again. Somehow, the idea of his company is comforting this time. Yuuri’s fingers hardly even shake as he fits the canister into the holder, cuts the end square, and sticks on the leader card.

 

“Thanks again for the coffee,” Yuuri takes a long sip after inserting the film into the processing machine and starting it up. The taste is light but not cloyingly sweet and the caffeine stirs up the cobwebs in his brain, sinking his body into a familiar warm buzz.  

 

“Of course,” Viktor smiles brightly, stirring the melting ice around with his straw. “You’ve been putting up with me the last couple of days, so…”

 

“I’m just doing my job,” Yuuri deflects immediately. “N-not…that I dislike being around you. It’s not work, I mean.”

 

“Thanks, Yuuri.” Viktor’s eyes are warm and creased at the edges. “That’s good to hear.” His shoulders droop and he pulls his hands back, straightening up again. “I’ll come back tomorrow to pick those up, okay?”

 

Yuuri blinks in surprise—more from shock that he actually doesn’t _want_ Viktor to go. He briefly wonders if it’d be okay to ask him to stay, but immediately files the thought away as presumptuous and unquestionably out of line. Viktor is handsome. Viktor is probably popular. Viktor is too obviously rich. Of course he doesn’t have the time to spend waiting around a pharmacy at eight in the evening.

 

“Oh,” Yuuri’s smile feels stiff and too noticeably faked. “Of course, no problem.”

  
“Wonderful,” Viktor knocks his knuckles against the counter. “What time will you be here?” 

 

 

Viktor flops into the driver’s seat of his pink convertible, thankful that he’d possessed the foresight to park in the far side of the lot so he can lean his head against the steering wheel without being seen. He wrenches his phone from his pocket, blindly hits speed dial, and lifts the cell to his ear.

 

“My husband and I are on a date and we’re not leaving to bring you to Walmart.”

 

“I’m sitting in the parking lot at Walgreens.” Viktor replies.

 

“We’re not going there, either.”

 

Viktor finally lifts his head and leans back in his seat. “I’m not asking you to.”

 

“Then why are you calling?”

 

Viktor glances at the 2013 Faiveley Clos de Beze Grand Cru in his passenger seat—a complimentary gift from his wine tasting from earlier—no doubt as a bribe to sway him towards recommending their brand to his wealthy clientele. He’s not completely sure why he’s called. For confirmation that leaving now was the right thing. That deciding to let Yuuri set the pace wasn’t a death sentence to any potential relationship. That any returned interest wasn’t imagined—that he wasn’t just imposing his will on some innocent cashier boy. That he hadn’t grown so out of touch as to seem as horrible as the woman from earlier.

 

All of those things. Or maybe none of them.  

 

“I’m completely done for, aren’t I?”

 

Chris smiles, miles away in a top tier hotel suite, cuddled against his husband’s side and swathed in silky, burgundy sheets. “Completely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So fuck that lady, huh? 
> 
> Thanks life for continuing to be shit bc I wasn’t going to release a new chapter until next weekend but I ended up needing a distraction and so here we are.
> 
> Thank you guys so so soooo much for your sweet / funny comments + kudos you all give me so much life. My crops are truly watered. As always, hmu on tumblr so we can talk about Yuuri’s Thicc Thighs


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The research for this chapter threw off my analytics and now google thinks I can afford a 100k+ piece of jewelry. Jokes on you, Googs, I had to pay 800 bucks to get my car fixed last week and cried for an hour.

“I’m quitting,” Yuuri says for the tenth time that morning. He hovers in front of the store entrance, cringing at his reflection in the glass. 

 

Phichit rolls his eyes and takes Yuuri by the arm. “You’re not.” He drags him through the sliding doors. “You barely survived the interview the first time and you have finals in a month, are you  _ really _ about to go job hunting?”

 

Of course the answer is no, but Yuuri would still appreciate being granted the time to engage in dramatics over making a fool of himself in front of Viktor the night before. He’s no expert at courting someone, but he’s pretty sure they’re not supposed to know what your crying face looks like before the actual dating process—and even then, probably not until  _ at least  _ the fifth date. He really wishes there were a manual to refer to at times like these. Something like, “ _ How to Date for the Extremely Anxious and Awkward _ .” 

 

Yuuri mumbles something about “spoil sports” and “uncaring roommates who can’t even manage to clean their own dishes” and slumps down behind the nearest register, letting his forehead fall to the counter with a wooden thunk. 

 

“Hey,” Phichit softens. He rests his hand on the back of Yuuri’s head and scratches his nails at his nape. “You’ve done much worse,” he says, because he’s a mind reader, apparently. Or maybe he just knows his friend well enough to pinpoint the source of this morning’s crisis.  

 

“Right,” Yuuri folds his arms around his face and groans into his elbows. “Thanks for the reminder.”

 

Phichit smiles crookedly and wraps his arms around Yuuri’s shoulders. “Crying in front of the guy you’re crushing on is like sub zero on the Yuuri Katsuki embarrassment scale. I mean remember when you stripped naked at that frat party last year and declared yourself ‘Baddest Bitch’ while pole dancing to Rihanna on the stairway banister?”

 

Yuuri does not remember, or at least, any memory he has pieced together is undoubtedly fabricated by the photographic evidence Phichit had helped him destroy from the night. 

 

“And of course there was the time you drank too much tequila after the gay pride parade and we had to go to the emergency room because you poured craft glitter on your head and got a piece in your eye.” Phichit snickers into his hand when Yuuri grumbles and rubs at his eyes under his glasses. “Oh, and last month when you announced your muscles fetish in front of all our friends at that kegger!”

 

So, fine, Yuuri will admit to being a bit of a...rowdy drunk. He does have his Kyushu bred father’s genetics, after all. But Phichit besmirching his good name just because he possibly might have  _ once _ innocently mentioned in passing that Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson has a nice smile (and later—when he was drunk—diamond-cut abs) is where he draws the line. Yuuri jerks up and slams his hands on the counter. “For the last time, I don’t have a—”

 

“Muscles fetish?” Viktor walks through the door at that exact moment.  _ Of course, _ he does. 

 

“It’s a joke!” Yuuri explains immediately, jumping from his stool. “He’s just joking! Right, Phichit?”

 

Phichit smirks and shakes his head. “Good morning, Viktor.”

 

“You both seem to be in better spirits this morning,” Viktor observes, setting down a fast food bag.

 

“What’d you bring us?” Phichit peers into the paper sack and gasps. “McDonald’s hash browns, Yuuri!” He immediately takes one out and stuffs half the thing in his mouth, chewing happily. “I officially approve of this union.” He swallows hard and gives Viktor a thumbs up. 

 

Yuuri knows it’s his responsibility as Phichit’s elder to apologize and maybe try to rein him in, but at the same time...McDonald’s hash browns. 

 

“You didn’t have to bring us breakfast,” Yuuri tries to be a little slower about eating than Phichit, but grease is a siren song and he ends up taking too big a bite despite his efforts. Yuuri covers his mouth with his hand, self-conscious about how huge his already round cheeks must look.

 

For his part, Viktor is enchanted and already plotting out all the fast food restaurants on his way to the store. “My pleasure, I’m hoping to improve the reputation of my fellow customers.”

 

Yuuri shakes his head and wipes his greasy fingers on his pants. It’s a habit that would normally leave Viktor cringing but watching Yuuri do it just makes him want to wrap the boy in his arms and protect him from the world. And yeah, he’s willing to admit he’s a bit far gone.

 

“We’re paid to be here, you really don’t have to worry about it.” Yuuri balls up his trash and tosses it in a wastebasket under the register. His eyes linger on the counter and Viktor can just make out the silhouette of his dark, short eyelashes through the glare in his glasses. “Um, I’ve got your pictures ready, if...”

 

“Great,” Viktor beams. Yuuri heads towards the photo center and Viktor follows after, resting his elbows on the counter to watch Yuuri roots around for his prints. The angle makes his low plunging v-neck hang away from his chest, and Yuuri will later blame the inescapable influence of gravity for the fact that—when he turns around, photos in hand—his eyes glance straight down Viktor’s shirt. 

 

He’s only able to make out what look to be some well-formed pectorals before forcibly tearing his gaze back up to Viktor’s face and choking on a breath. The glimpse is short—less than a second—but he’d be lying if he tried to claim the sight didn’t make him feel certain...things, and oh  _ god _ he’s the world’s biggest pervert. 

 

Yuuri hands Viktor his packet of photos, embarrassed to look him in the eye. He hopes Viktor doesn’t notice the trembling in his fingers. 

 

“So what did you think? Adorable, huh?” Viktor asks, peeling back the sticker and flipping through his pictures.

 

Yuuri swallows hard and shakes his head. “I don’t, I…” He looks to his hands for answers. “I’m not really supposed to discuss customers photos.” He says in a rush. His lungs feel desperately empty, but it seems kind of awkward to start panting for air when he’s been standing stationary for the past few minutes, so he settles for pinching his lips shut, letting himself go slowly dizzy. Passing out from oxygen loss might be more embarrassing but at least he’ll have the benefit of blissful unconsciousness.  

 

“ _ I’m _ the one asking  _ you _ ,” Viktor presses, dumping out the photos across the counter with a bright smile. “C’mon, you know she’s cute.”

 

‘ _ You’re the one that’s cute _ ,’ Yuuri’s traitorous mind supplies. He very firmly files the thought away with other intimidating things like listening to voicemails or making doctor’s appointments. 

 

“Look,” Viktor pulls out a print and passes it to Yuuri. “This one’s my favorite.”

 

Yuuri scrambles to take it, balancing the photo by the back corners to avoid smudging the glossy finish. The picture  _ is _ admittedly adorable. Yuuri tends not to pay very close attention to the content of his customer’s film, but even he couldn’t help but laugh a little the previous night when he’d seen Viktor’s big standard poodle, lounged out next to a laptop, swathed in a dog-sized bathrobe, and situated with a tiny plate of milkbones. “What’s her name?” He asks, handing it back. 

 

“Makkachin.” Viktor replies, smiling at the photo fondly before sliding it back into the packet. “Fourteen-years-old, but you could hardly tell it. The vet says not to let her know her age since she’s clearly determined to outlive us all.”

 

“She does seem very...relaxed,” Yuuri settles on, carefully parsing through the prints scattered on the counter. He covers his mouth with his hand, breaking into a giggle fit over an image of Makkachin and Viktor wearing matching pink heart-shaped sunglasses. “Wish she could tell me her secret.”  

 

Viktor hums and taps his fingers to his lips. “Hmm. Well. She drinks plenty of mineral water, goes on lots of walks...oh, she releases pent up stress through her favorite squeaky toy!” Viktor adds excitedly, listing things out on his fingers. “Aaaand it probably helps that she doesn’t have to work. Or worry about things like property taxes or school zoning laws.” 

 

Yuuri is laughing along because, yeah, dogs dealing with human stresses.  _ Hilarious _ . But then the implication of Viktor’s statement registers and his mouth goes dry. “Wait, you have a kid?” 

 

Viktor looks taken aback. He knits his eyebrows and opens his mouth to respond, but his ringtone sounds from his pocket—a piano cover of Everytime by Britney Spears, Yuuri notes—and interrupts him. “ _ Дерьмо́ _ ,” he hisses after pulling out his cell and reading the display. “Sorry, Yuuri, I’ve got to take this.” He unearths another camera from his jacket pocket and sets it on the counter. “I’ll be back this afternoon, okay?”

 

“Uh y-yeah, Viktor—?” Yuuri stammers, though he doubts Viktor even hears him. He’s halfway across the store already, waving back at Yuuri over his shoulder and almost bumping into a haggard-looking student dragging himself to the refrigerated drink display. “You—” Yuuri picks up the camera and studies it in his hands— “forgot to pay.”

 

 

 Viktor peers over a glass case of cufflinks. The bright display lighting radiates warmth through his fingertips and he gestures at the attendant to take out a Clé de Cartier pink gold pair for further scrutiny. He pulls his elbows to his chest, tapping a finger to his mouth as he examines them, then gasps suddenly—eyes going wide with realization. Viktor straightens and thumps the heel of his palm against his forehead. “ _Дерьмо́,”_ he hisses for the second time in two hours.

 

“Not to your liking?” Chris bends down to inspect the jewelry, holding a hand over his waist so as not to wrinkle his Ermenegildo Zegna lavender twill dress shirt. The size of the lapis-lazuli inlay is perhaps bordering on gaudy, but their clientele isn't exactly known for modest displays of wealth. He fails to see the problem. 

 

“I’m an idiot,” Viktor informs him matter-of-factly, walking mindlessly past an array of glittering brooches. “I completely forgot to pay.”

 

Chris follows closely, a sly smile playing on the corner of his lips. “I don’t know if you realize, but the store doesn’t currently require an entrance fee.” He nods politely when an attendant offers to take out an egregiously expensive Pomellato rose gold, diamond encrusted link necklace for viewing. “Our clients might like that, though,” he ponders. “It suggests a certain exclusivity, don’t you think?”

 

“No, not the—” Viktor trails off, frustrated. “ _ Yuuri _ .” He clarifies, moving to stand behind his friend. “I forgot to pay  _ Yuuri _ .”

 

Chris raises an eyebrow and tilts his chin up to Viktor. “Oh. He’s in  _ that _ line of work?” He pauses—forehead wrinkled in thought—then gives a short frown and shrugs. “I never would’ve expected, but I suppose I can see it. He has very shapely hips for a man.”

 

“Could you please remove your mind from the gutter.” Viktor scolds, although he can’t help but internally agree. “I meant that I forgot to pay for my latest photos. Also—” Viktor leans down to study the price tag on the necklace Chris is pondering and inwardly cringes. He’s all for fine goods—he’s built his career around promoting them—but he draws the line at jewelry that rivals the cost of a decent-sized home. “ _ Stop _ thinking about Yuuri like that. I can see that you are, and I don’t like it.” 

 

“How possessive can you be? You can’t control a man’s thoughts, Vitya.” Chris saunters off to the next display with a teasing hip wiggle.

 

“Trust me, I’m well aware of that fact,” Viktor sighs, running a hand through his bangs. It’s not that he actually wants to manipulate the inner workings of Yuuri’s mind into comprehending that he is being quite obviously flirted with because that would be creepy. It  _ would _ expedite the courting process, however. Viktor wanders next to Chris to examine a case of extravagant engagement rings. They are too ostentatious for Viktor’s taste: overly-large, brightly colored gems that speak more of the contents of the wearer’s wallet than of their heart. He would go for something much simpler—maybe a sleek gold band—should the occasion ever arise. 

 

“I made him laugh today.” The tone of Viktor’s voice changes with the admission. It’s light and boyish and somehow matches the giddy pink blush he can see reflected back in the spotless glass display case. 

 

Chris scoffs, amused by the sudden change in his friend’s demeanor. “I’m sorry, did you want to purchase an engagement ring for  _ yourself _ while we’re here?”

 

“It was so cute,” Viktor ignores him, his eyes sparkling brighter than any of the expensive gems in the designer boutique. “I’m pretty sure I left my heart in a puddle on the floor.” 

 

“Clean-up on aisle Hopeless Romantic.” Chris rolls his eyes—fond—and asks a nearby attendant to show them a set of platinum white diamonds.

 

“I think he likes muscles,” Viktor adds excitedly.

 

“So we’ve established that he has a pulse.” Chris picks up a twisted halo frame and studies it in the light. “Well, good for him, he’s happened upon the right Russian suitor to satisfy his deepest desires.”

 

Viktor has given up on mentally cataloging designer names and jewelry trends. He leans with his butt against the display case, arms folded over his chest. “Do you think it’d be too much to show up shirtless?”

 

“You’re asking me if I think it’s too much to show up shirtless to a Walgreens in order to seduce your oblivious Asian crush?” 

 

Viktor pauses—considering—then shrugs and nods. 

 

“No, darling.” Chris carefully places the ring back in its foam insert. “If I were you, I’d show up oiled from head to toe wearing nothing but a thong and a smile.”

 

Viktor groans but his eyes are lined with amusement. “I don’t need to be reminded of how you secured the first date with your husband.”

 

“First  _ fuck _ ,” Chris corrects, unphased by the nearby attendant’s barely suppressed giggle. “But that was a private house call with my personal doctor. I suppose there are rules against those sorts of things in public places.”  

 

“People typically frown upon public nudity, yes.”

 

“Shame,” Chris’ voice is infused with genuine pity for humankind at large. 

 

Viktor opens his mouth to reply, but his phone buzzes—cutting him off. He draws the cell from his pocket and quickly scans the text, his newly evaporated frustration returning as he reads. He has yet to encounter another human being who is able to convey such an extreme air of pretension and arrogance through text.  

 

“Madame Plisetsky beckons.” His tone is even, but Chris can detect his irritation. He’s become an expert at dissecting the emotions hiding behind Viktor’s polished public persona after years of working with the man. “Seems she is entangled in a battle of wills with an ‘incompetent’ florist and is unable to excuse her driver to bring  _ dear _ ,  _ sweet _ Yurio to ballet practice.” 

 

“As hilarious as it is to force him to go, we’re lifestyle consultants. Not babysitters.” Chris starts heading towards the door, anyway. The woman might be off her rocker— already elbow-deep in planning a wedding with the future fifth ex who has yet to even  _ propose _ to her—but her pockets are deep and she’s one of their most loyal clients.  

 

“You know I agree with you, but—”

 

“Don’t say it,” Chris laments, dropping into the passenger seat of Viktor’s Barbie pink convertible. “I like to pretend I still have some remaining scrap of integrity. Keeps me warm while I count my money.”

 

Viktor sighs and shifts the car into drive. It’s a feeling he knows all too well, having grown up immersed in the superficiality old money inspired. When he’d finally gathered the courage to leave his notoriously critical Babushka and moved to America almost a decade ago, it was with grand plans to combine his strict upbringing in ‘proper decorum’ and knowledge of designer goods to found his stakes as the go-to lifestyle consultant for the Russian elite. His piddling, one-man business model had grown exponentially over the years and he would readily admit that he was quite proud of his accomplishments. 

 

But occupational success had done little to chase away the persistent aching emptiness that pinched his lungs in the dark of his bedroom each night. He smiled, he schmoozed, he...felt so very little most days. In retrospect, it’s no wonder Yuuri—with his adorable down-to-earth demeanor and utterly unguarded displays of emotion—had felt like such a refreshing departure from the people Viktor typically spends his days engaging. 

 

Chris and Viktor ride in comfortable silence—lost in their own thoughts. Eventually, Chris pulls out his phone and starts scrolling through his planner. “If you want to drop me off at Boulangerie Gourdon, I can take care of our four o’clock with Cornielle and you can wrangle  _ dear _ ,  _ sweet _ Yurio to his trainers.” 

 

Viktor frowns, his eyebrows furrowing together. “But I’m supposed to be meeting with Yuuri this afternoon.” The words come out sounding more like a petulant whine than the reasonings of a mature adult, but he’s also being cockblocked by a child that isn’t even his own, so whatever.

 

“While I’m supportive of your romantic endeavors, I feel the need to remind you that  _ you’re _ the one with the car.”

 

Viktor groans loudly and fights the urge to drop his forehead against the steering wheel. “Remind me never to have kids.” He flips down the sun visor with more force than is strictly necessary.

 

“Oh?” Chris turns on the radio and flips through the stations until he finds one with the most potential to annoy Yuri. “Here I thought you wanted to marry a handsome Asian man with nice hips and a gentle face and settle down with five kids, three dogs, and a house with white picket fence.”

 

“Five dogs and three kids,” Viktor corrects. “I thought I told you to stop reading my diary.”

 

Chris laughs. “As if I need a diary, your drunken rambling is revealing enough.”

 

“I’ve got to stop letting sommeliers offer me free wine,” Viktor says without meaning it even a little. He pulls onto the long mansion drive and waits for the iron gates to open. “I do want it, though. Just—” 

 

“Not now,” Chris finishes for him, pulling out a compact to check his mascara.

 

“No,” Viktor admits through a sigh, unlocking the doors for the angry blonde teenager charging his car. “Definitely not now.”  

 

  

“I think he has a kid.”

 

“Yuuri.” Phichit stops shelving nail polish and blinks at his friend, stunned. “ _ Oh my god _ .”

 

“I’m serious!” Yuuri insists.

 

“I’m sure you are,” Phichit placates—patting his friend’s cheek, “and that’s what scares me.”

 

“How is it unreasonable for him to be a Dad?” 

 

Which...point. The theory that Viktor’s a Dad isn’t any less grounded in reality than Yuuri’s fantasy that he’s making a living as an outdated, analog cam guy, and at least this time he has Viktor’s hairline and penchant for v-neck t-shirts and blazers to back his claims. Still, “I know you’re against ever actually using your social media accounts, but no man who posts _ that _ many pictures of his dog is a father.”

 

Yuuri starts to argue, but he doesn’t get the chance to because it’s at that moment that Viktor enters the store, followed by a small, angry-looking, cheetah print wearing blonde kid.

 

“Yuuri!” Viktor’s entire face brightens behind a smile. The blonde kid snaps his chin up at him, a confused scowl tight in the corner of his mouth. 

 

“Wait,” the boy interrupts, “ this _pig_ is the guy you’ve been mooning over?” He looks from Yuuri’s scuffed navy Nikes to the ends of his rumpled hair with a look of pure, unadulterated disgust. 

 

Yuuri isn’t sure if he should be pleased that Viktor has talked about him or embarrassed that this kid was able to hone right in on one of his biggest insecurities. Mostly, he focuses on trying to maintain a normal-looking expression while his brain occupies itself with a lot of a screaming. (‘ _ Oh my god, he actually has a kid?! And he looks pretty old, just how young was Viktor when he had him?! Is he still with the other parent?! Am I going to have to be a stepdad?! I don’t even know how to make pancakes, though, aren’t Dads supposed to know how to make pancakes???! _ ’)

 

Luckily, Viktor steps in, cuffing the kid by the neck with a very stiff, obviously fake smile. “Yuuri, meet Yuri. He’s the son of a client.” 

 

“We have...the same name,” Yuuri observes, smiling nervously. Yuri scoffs and crosses his arms over his chest, a stormcloud in his eyes. 

 

“And he’s not your son!” Phichit adds, slapping Yuuri on the back. 

 

Viktor barely manages to contain a look of horror. Yuri may be an insufferable, angsty brat at the best of times, but he’s still the offspring of a very influential client. It’s probably not wise to dry heave over the thought of being his parent. “Oh, no no no.” Viktor’s laugh is stilted. “I don’t think I’d be capable of raising a child this...headstrong.”

 

“The name thing is kind of confusing, though.” Phichit tilts his head and squints his eyes. “What should we call you?”

 

“‘Angry Yuri?’” Viktor suggests because he may be a professional but sometimes even he can’t help himself. 

 

“That’s good, that’s good.” Phichit nods, considering. “How about ‘Emo Yuri? Oh! Or ‘Short Yuri.’”

 

Yuri grits his teeth and points a finger in Phichit’s face. “Say another fucking word and it’s going to be ‘Murderer Yuri,’” he warns.

 

Phichit lowers his eyelids, thoroughly unimpressed. “Mm I think you were right the first time, ‘Angry Yuri’ it is.” Phichit grabs Yuri by the wrist. “Well c’mon, Angry Yuri, let’s let Viktor and Nice Yuuri have their alone time.”

 

“Uh actually,” Viktor intercepts, “I came in to ask for a favor.” 

 

Yuri wrenches his arm away from Phichit and Yuuri nods eagerly. “Of course, what do you need?”

 

Viktor puts a hand on his hip and runs the other through his hair. “I was wondering if either of you has a car I could borrow. Mine stalled out a couple blocks down the road.”

 

“This idiot ran out of gas,” Yuri interjects. 

 

“This...idiot ran out of gas.” Viktor concedes with a sigh. It’s hard to remember things like monitoring fuel gauges when your days are spent daydreaming about buying an American Craftsman with the beautiful boy that works at the local Walgreens. 

 

Yuuri scratches the back of his head. “Sorry but neither of us have a license, we always just bike to work.”

 

“A bike works!” Viktor says excitedly. Sure, he hasn’t ridden a bike that wasn’t stationary since the early 2000s, but the nearest gas station is only a couple of miles away and he’s in good shape from regular exercise. How hard could it be? 

 

Viktor is regretting his decision when Yuuri rolls his rusted, scrap heap of a blue bike from the rack in the back of the store. “Uh...sorry,” Yuuri apologizes when Viktor fails to disguise his obvious fear. “The handbrake can be kind of finicky, but...”    

 

“No, no! It’s okay,” Viktor assures him, snapping the poodle printed helmet under his chin. “I love bikes!” 

 

  

“I hate bikes,” Viktor grumbles to himself when the fourth person honks at him in thirty minutes. His slim fit slate Tom Baker blazer is tied around his waist and his plain white v-neck is rendered transparent from sweat and adhered to his chest like a second skin. He ends up ripping it off in frustration when a person in a rumbling Ford pulls up right behind his back wheel and then swerves around him with a middle finger hanging out their window when the other lane finally clears.  

 

It’s probably for the best that Yuri’s mother had finally relinquished her driver to take her son to ballet class. Viktor’s not happy to have his perfect reputation tarnished by something as easily avoidable as his car running out of gas, but it’s better to have Yuri off tormenting his dance teacher than have him interfering with Viktor’s, frankly, brilliant flirtation attempts. Viktor is well aware he currently smells of gasoline, sweat, and probably sun-soaked garbage, but he really doesn’t need some snot nosed brat pointing it out in front of his crush.

 

Viktor has to blink away tears of gratitude when he finally sees the beacon of salvation that is the Walgreens store sign shining against a vivid summer sunset. It takes great restraint to fight the impulse to toss Yuuri’s bike in the store dumpster where it so clearly belongs. He locks it around the bike rack instead and drags himself to the entrance—helmet under his arm and sopping shirt draped over his shoulder—wondering if it’d be considered excessive to gift Yuuri with a car. 

 

Maybe he could just offer to pay half.

 

“Viktor,” Yuuri drops the barcode scanner he’s holding when Viktor shuffles through the automatic doors. “What happened?”

 

“Ah,” Viktor tries to use his arm to rub the sweat from his face, but only ends up with salt in his eyes. “This summer sure has been a scorcher!” It’s only been teetering around 27 in the early evenings, but he’s Russian, goddammit. His body isn’t used to regulating itself in these kinds of temperatures.

 

“No, I mean,” Yuuri gestures vaguely at his chest and Viktor can’t help but feel mildly offended. He’s no bodybuilder, sure, but horrified disgust isn’t exactly the expression he had expected Yuuri to wear upon his first time witnessing Viktor’s naked torso. 

 

Phichit finishes checking out a customer at the cosmetics counter and wheels around the kiosk to join them. “Jesus, Vik, what did you  _ do _ ?” He jumps back, hands over his mouth.

 

At this point, Viktor decides it might be a good idea to actually try to figure out what they’re talking about. He glances down at his chest and is shocked to find it mottled with bulbous red welts. So maybe it wasn’t the best idea to strip off his clothes in the dead of summer when he was stupidly allergic to mosquitos. Noted.

 

“They’re just bug bites.” He waves a hand, trying to act dismissive and downplay his affliction. Of course, it’s at that exact moment that the overwhelming itchiness hits. He weighs the pros and cons of hobbling to the nearest corner display and rubbing himself against it like a disgruntled, flea-ridden bear. 

 

As he’s considering it, a woman enters with her young daughter, takes one look at Viktor and his unseemly fire-red growths, and yanks her child up into her arms—speed walking to the school supplies.  

 

Phichit watches on and tries not to laugh. “Uh...maybe you should take him to the back before he scares away customers.”

 

Viktor is too busy fantasizing about gnawing at his own shoulder to notice the conversation around him, but he’s pulled back to the present when Yuuri takes him by the hand and hauls him towards the back of the store. “C’mon,” Yuuri encourages, pausing only to pick up a container of Sudocrem from the first aid section. “We’ll get you fixed up.”   

 

“I feel like I’m being let in on a secret,” Viktor marvels when Yuuri guides him into a squat room furnished with a table, chairs, a half-eaten cup of ramen, and an old tv sat atop a cabinet. “I’m not going to be murdered, am I?”

 

“The first rule about the Walgreen’s employee break room”—Yuuri touches Viktor’s elbow and motions for him to sit in a chair—“you do not talk about the Walgreen’s employee break room.” 

 

Viktor laughs and Yuuri sits across from, uncapping the jar of Sudacrem. “Is it alright if I…?” He looks at the ointment and then back to Viktor’s face, asking for silent permission to, apparently, grope Viktor’s chest with his dainty, soft-looking fingers. 

 

Viktor is perfectly capable of applying the medicated cream himself, but at the same time, a cute boy is offering to massage his chest, and he’d be a fool to pass up that opportunity. He nods eagerly with wide eyes, fully aware that he probably looks like Makkachin when she’s begging for a treat.

 

Yuuri wastes no time in dipping his fingertips into the balm and gently spreading it over a blister on Viktor’s neck. His touch is light, but it feels like electricity sparking against Viktor’s skin. His heart charges up to his throat and he can’t control the sharp shudder that jerks through his spine. 

 

“Is it too cold?” Yuuri frets, running his teeth over his fraying bottom lip. 

 

“No, no. You’re fine— _ it _ !” His correction is unnecessary and so sudden that it makes Yuuri jump. _ “It’s _ fine,” Viktor repeats, quieter this time. He runs his fingers through his sweat-soaked bangs. To think he has been praised in the past for his unwavering composure. He’s starting to understand why they say fools fall in love. 

 

Yuuri blushes and rubs his fingertips together to warm them. “Is this okay?” He asks, spreading ointment over a welt near Viktor’s collar bone.  

 

His hands are ridiculously soft and gentle and it’s  _ not _ okay, not even a little. But probably not for the reasons Yuuri is asking. “Yes, thank you,” Viktor clenches his thighs and desperately claws at his brain for every unsexy thing he can think of: his Babushka in her silk dressing gown. Men’s Rights Activists. Crocs.

 

“Did you have any trouble with the bike?” Yuuri asks, carefully treating a bug bite uncomfortably close to Viktor’s nipple. 

 

Viktor is internally screaming but he tries not to show it. “You mean aside from the road rage and entomological warfare?” He asks. “I don’t think I realized the intense hatred Americans harbor for bicyclists. I  _ did _ , however, learn a few new curses, so I guess I could call it an educational experience? Which reminds me, do you have any earthly idea what a ‘ _ twatwaffle _ ’ is?”

 

Yuuri tucks his chin to his chest and giggles. It’s an adorable sound—soft and lilting up at the end with a faint snuffle. If Viktor thought riding a bike during rush hour traffic had shaved a good year off of his life, surely this boy and his inhumanly cute laugh have added at least ten more back on. 

 

“You get used to it,” Yuuri assures him. 

 

“Well, let the record show that I’d be happy to take you car hunting, should you ever get un-used to it.”

 

“I don’t know if pink is really my color,” Yuuri deflects, dipping his fingers back into the jar.

 

“You wound me.” Viktor’s stomach jumps when Yuuri touches a spot near his waistband. “I’m in the business of analyzing other people’s taste, and you, Yuuri, are definitely more of a blue man.”

 

Yuuri looks up—eyes squinted—and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his knuckle. “What are you, a spy?”

 

“My pants button is actually a camera.” Viktor’s delivery is deadpan. 

 

“Wait...seriously?” Yuuri leans down to get a closer look just as Phichit wheels himself around the corner and into the room. 

 

He knocks on the door twice. “Okay, you two, children are present.”

 

Yuuri snaps back up, just barely missing whapping Viktor under the chin with his head. “We weren’t doing anything!” He yells, open palms shoulder length apart as if he had been caught robbing a bank rather than potentially about to suck Viktor’s dick. 

 

“Uh huh,” Phichit waggles his eyebrows suggestively, “obvious lie aside, I come bearing gifts!” He announces cheerily, holding out a wrinkled ball of lilac fabric. 

 

“Uh...thank...you?” Yuuri tries to smile, but it looks more like a toothy, vaguely intimidating grimace. 

 

“It’s not for you,” Phichit snaps his hand back. “It’s for Viktor,” he smiles sweetly, re-brandishing the item for Viktor to take. “No shirt, no shoes, no service. If you wanna hang around my beautiful buddy, you’re gonna have to cover up the six pack.”

 

Viktor unravels the purple popcorn shirt. “I didn’t realize they still made these,” He marvels, running his fingers along the ridges of the thin, crêpe-y monstrosity.  

 

“Walgreens is full of many wonders.” Phichit picks up the half-eaten cup of ramen noodles and takes a bite. “And also many customers, so how about you two move your flirting to the register.”

 

 

 “Look, Yuuri!” Viktor wanders over to Yuuri’s register, excitedly waving around a Katy Perry singing toothbrush. He’s been roaming around the store for the past 45 minutes, proudly bestowing Yuuri with the weirdest items he can find while unashamedly donning a 90’s inspired, lilac popcorn shirt that doesn’t even reach past his belly button.  

 

Viktor has delivered an Obama chia pet, bacon-flavored cotton candy, and placenta infused hair conditioner before Yuuri decides that  _ not only _ is it just plain wrong for a person to look so cute in such an objectively hideous shirt, but Viktor probably spends too much alone time with his dog.

 

“When I said move your flirting to the register, I didn’t actually think you’d do it,” Phichit sniffs and dabs at the fake tears under his eyes. “My little boy is growing up.”

 

“We’re not flirting,” Yuuri’s denial is contradicted by the smile playing on his lips. “And I’m older than you.”

 

“Details, details,” Phichit dismisses. “You know you’re off in five minutes, loverboy.” He watches Yuuri fumble with a roll of receipt paper with a teasing smile. “I do hope you plan to walk your date back to his car.” 

 

“You’re off in five?” Viktor asks, dropping a waffle iron/hair straightener hybrid onto Yuuri’s counter. “Why don’t I give you both a ride home?”

 

Phichit gives an exaggerated sigh and snaps his finger. “As much as I’d love to have the Barbie experience, I don’t think we could fit both our bikes in your car.” 

 

It’s a valid point, Yuuri recognizes as he rolls his bike down the sidewalk, bumping shoulders with Viktor. It doesn’t stop him from thinking Phichit had ulterior motives for making it, though.  

 

“Was Yuri okay for you?” Viktor breaks the silence, fighting the urge to put his arm around Yuuri’s shoulder when a speeding car zooms past them. 

 

“Yeah,” Yuuri’s hair curls around his face, tousled by the wind. “He ate two bags of Cheetos, took a nap in the break room, then got bored and helped me stock toothpaste.”

 

“Really?” Viktor’s eyebrows move to his hairline. Maybe he should give the kid another chance. Or maybe Yuuri was just some kind of secret grumpy kitten whisperer.  

 

“Yeah,” Yuuri shrugs. Then, hesitantly, “I get the feeling he doesn’t like me very much.”

 

“He doesn’t like anyone very much,” Viktor says honestly, “but it sounds like you rank above me, at least.” 

 

“Maybe he’s just mean because he likes you?” Yuuri offers, relieved to see Viktor’s car parked on the street right ahead. 

 

“Is that a real thing or just something people say to make you feel better?” Viktor asks, releasing the lock on the gas tank door.

 

Yuuri leans his elbows on his handlebars and laughs, shaking his head. “I don’t really know.”

 

“At least you’re honest,” Viktor pours the gas into the tank, careful not to drip any down his vibrant pink paint job. “Those photos were for him, by the way.” He caps the portable fuel tank and pops open the trunk. 

 

“Hmm?” Yuuri squints against a pair of oncoming headlights, wheeling his bike forward when Viktor waves him over. 

 

“You know, the first ones—” he hoists Yuuri’s bike into the back seat. It’s a tight squeeze but it fits okay with the top down. “Of the memes?”

 

Yuuri looks to the sky, then breathes deeply, his shoulders moving up to his ears. “Oh!” He giggles into his hand and climbs into the passenger seat. That first set of photos had slipped from his memory, deemed less important than the minutiae of every awkward interaction he’d managed with the source of his recent crush. 

 

“Did you think I was weird?” Viktor revs the engine and pulls out into traffic.

 

“Maybe a little,” Yuuri admits before instructing Viktor to turn at the next light. “But I’ve seen weirder.”

 

“That so,” Viktor winks. “Sounds like a story worth telling.”

 

And it is. Yuuri doesn’t go into much detail, careful as always about customer privacy and store policy, but he does regale Viktor with tales of the many, varied nude shots he’s had the misfortune of developing in his tenure as Walgreens' photo center attendant. As well as the one lady that would show up to the store twice a week with a film roll of documented canned goods. 

 

“So cans, but...do the locations change?”

 

“No, it’s always just one can in front of a plain black backdrop.”

 

“So weird.”

 

“Right?”

 

The trip duration seems impossibly short, but before long, Viktor is pulling up the road in front of Yuuri’s plain brick apartment building. 

  
  


“Well, uh...thanks for the ride,” Yuuri says softly. He frowns when Viktor starts scratching at a bug bite on his neck and reaches over to pull his hand away before considering the implication of his actions. Viktor’s fingers are cool to the touch and he’s quick to release them.  

 

“Uh sorry,” Yuuri draws his hand back to his chest. “H-how are you feeling, anyway?” 

 

Viktor puts his hands back on the wheel and turns to look at Yuuri. He knows he means the bug bites, but, “I’m feeling—” happy, comfortable, really  _ alive _ for the first time in ages—“like I want to ask you on a date.”

 

Yuuri flushes hard and balls his hands over his thighs. 

 

“You don’t have to respond to that now, but—” Viktor fishes his phone out of his pocket and hands it to Yuuri—“do you think I could have your number?”

 

Yuuri nods and types quickly, setting the phone back in Viktor’s waiting hand when he finishes. “W-well, goodnight,” he mumbles awkwardly, struggling mightily with the seat belt before finally freeing himself and stumbling to the sidewalk. “I’ll...talk to you later?” 

 

Viktor fights back the weird sinking feeling in his chest. “Sure, Yuuri,” he agrees, his smile uncharacteristically nervous. “Talk to you later.”

 

Yuuri looks like he wants to say something, but he bites his cracked bottom lip and shuts the door instead, plodding off towards his dimly lit stairwell. Viktor stalls on the street, waiting to make sure Yuuri is safely inside before unlocking his phone and pulling up his contacts. He scrolls hurriedly—skin prickling—freezing just before he’s reached the “K’s.”  

 

He clamps his eyes shut and scrolls down, counting up to an undecided number in his head before deciding “fuck it” and opening his eyes. It takes Viktor a few ticks to process what he’s looking at, but finally, reality descends: not only is the entered number different from the one for the photo center, but Yuuri’s contact name is capped off with a little blue heart. 

 

Viktor shifts his car back to drive, cheering so loudly he worries Yuuri might hear him from his third story apartment.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then Viktor drove off into the night with Yuuri’s main means of transportation. Oh, you two. 
> 
> That feel when you take a week off writing because life, and then the week you’re supposed to write you get a 4 (going on 5! woooo) day migraine. It’s hard to be funny when it feels like your brain is trying to explode out your eye socket. So, so very hard.
> 
> Thank you all so so sooooo much for your comments and kudos. I am such an insecure bean, I take every comment and spin it around myself like a warm, safe cocoon. And whoever recced this fic to victuurificrec, you da real mvp. <3 
> 
> I’m on [tumblr](http://youremarvelous.tumblr.com/), writing headcanons, posting drabbles, trying to be social with people who are similarly in love with these two doofy husbands. Yeeeah.
> 
> (PS this is a [popcorn shirt](http://www.factoriesconnection.com/popcorn_shirts/SLHP-89_MED.jpg), if you have never seen one lucky you. I once owned one that was teal and purple...it was A Look. The 90’s was a time, y’all.)


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